Chapter One

H e exited the church’s double doors and surveyed the gath-

ering. Ladies in their signature hats chatted and laughed
while children played tag about their legs. Singles clustered
around the periphery, drawn together by situation and need.
The diverse congregation mirrored its Baltimore neighborhood.
Marc Royce knew many of them, and would have been welcomed
by most. But it had been some time since he’d moved easily
among friends. Even here.
Spring sunlight glinted off a windshield to his right. Marc
watched a limo glide down the block toward them. Dark-tinted
windows reflected the trees and the stone church. As the vehicle
approached, the back window began to roll down.
The congregation grew watchful, tense. In Washington,
fifty miles to the south, only a tourist gave a black Town Car a
second glance. But in Baltimore, limos meant something else
entirely. A lot of Baltimore’s drive-bys started like this, with
tinted windows masking rage and weapons until the very last
moment.
Which was why all the parishioners gathered in front of
the church’s steps gave the slow-moving limo a very hard look.
The Town Car swept through the surrounding traffic like a
beast of the deep. The rear window was now all the way down.

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 Dav i s Bu n n

Marc tensed with the others, and reached for the gun he no
longer wore.
Then an old man’s face appeared in the open window. The
lone passenger was white and old and paid the congregation no
mind. He leaned forward and spoke to his driver. Apparently
the window was down simply so the old man could enjoy the
fine spring day.
Appearances, Marc knew, could be deceiving.
The limo swept around the corner and disappeared. The
gathering resumed their Sunday chats. Marc gave it a few beats,
long enough for his departure not to be tied to the limo, then
walked around the corner.
As expected, the Town Car idled at the curb. With Marc’s
approach, the rear door opened. He slipped inside, leaving every
vestige of the church’s peace outside with the sunlight and the
cool spring air.
———
The limo driver pulled away before Marc had the car door
shut. It was a typical Washington power move, as though the
world turned too slowly to suit.
The old man asked, “How’ve you been, Marc?”
“Fine, sir.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
When Marc did not respond, the old man smirked, as though
Marc’s silence was a feeble defense. “You’re suffocating, is what I
hear. You’re not made for this life. You never were. You’re going
through the motions. There’s nothing worse than a wasted life.
Believe me, son. I know.”
Marc did not ask how the old man was faring. The last time
they had met, it had been in the back seat on an identical ride.
They had argued. Rather, the old man had raged while Marc

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fumed in silence. Then the old man had fired Marc and dumped
him on a rutted Baltimore street.
“What are you doing here?” Marc asked. “Sir.”
“We have a problem. A big one.”
“There is no ‘we.’ Neither one of us works for the govern-
ment anymore. You’re retired. I was dismissed. Remember?”
Ambassador Walton was the former chief of State Depart-
ment Intelligence. In the three years since their last meeting, the
ambassador had been forced off his throne. The Glass Castle, as
the Potomac building housing State Intel was known, was ruled
by another man now. Marc went on, “You called me a disgrace
to the intelligence service.”
Ambassador Walton had shrunk to where he wore his skin
like a partially deflated balloon. The flesh draped about his col-
lar shook slightly as he growled, “You got precisely what you
deserved.”
“I took a leave of absence to care for my wife.”
“I gave you the department maximum. Six weeks. You took
nine months.”
“Both our parents were gone. She had nobody else.”
“You could have gotten help.”
Marc bit down on the same argument that had gone unspo-
ken in their last meeting. He had lost his mother when he was
six. When his father had become ill, Marc had been in Chile
protecting national interests. His father, a construction electri-
cian who had not finished high school, had been intensely proud
of his son’s achievements. So proud, in fact, he had ordered his
second wife not to let Marc know he was on the verge of check-
ing out. Marc had arrived home just in time for the funeral.
Taking whatever time required to care for his wife had been
a no-brainer.

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 Dav i s Bu n n

When the limo pulled up in front of Marc’s home, he reached

for the door handle. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Alex Baird has gone missing.”
Marc’s hand dropped.
Alex Baird was assistant chief of security in the Green Zone,
the safety precinct in the heart of Baghdad. Marc might have
been out of the intel game. And America might officially be
done with that particular war. But to have an American agent
go missing in Baghdad was very bad news.
What was more, Alex was the only friend who had not
abandoned Marc after the ambassador cut him loose. Alex had
remained in regular contact. He had tried repeatedly to effect
a truce between Marc and the ambassador. But Walton’s defi-
nition of loyalty was black and white. A subordinate was on duty
twenty-four-seven. Everything else was secondary.
State Intel was the smallest of the nation’s intelligence forces,
responsible for security in every overseas nonmilitary base. Their
remit included all embassies, consulates, ambassadorial resi-
dences, and treaty houses. The head of State Intel held ambas-
sadorial rank so as to interact with the heads of various missions
at an equal level.
Ambassador Walton expected subordinates to treat his every
request as a reason to go the distance and beyond. In return, the
man accelerated their climb through the Washington hierarchy.
Walton’s former protégés held positions in the CIA, Pentagon,
Congressional Intel oversight committees, and the White House.
Another directed the capitol’s top intel think tank, yet another
served as ambassador to Zaire. In Walton’s opinion, Marc Royce
had done the unforgivable. He had put his wife first. He had
walked away.
Ambassador Walton broke into Marc’s thoughts. “You think
if I had any choice I’d show up here and grovel?”

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“When did Alex go off the grid?”

“Almost three days ago. Seventy hours, to be exact.”
Three days missing in Baghdad meant one of two things.
Either Alex had been kidnapped, or he was buried in a dusty
grave. Marc considered it a toss-up which one would be worse.
“The official line is, Alex has eloped. He’s supposedly hiding
under a false passport at some Red Sea resort. With a young
lady he met through a local Baghdad pastor.”
“That’s impossible.”
“The young lady is also missing. And she was seeing Alex.”
Walton handed over a file. “Hannah Brimsley. Volunteer serv-
ing at the church in the Green Zone. Also missing is a second
young woman, Claire Reeves. Civilian nurse contracted to the
base hospital at Bagram Air Base.”
“For one thing, Alex would no more walk away from a duty
station than . . .” Marc was about to say, than he would. But
since this was precisely what Walton felt he had done, Marc
let the sentence drop. “For another, if Alex was romantically
involved, I would know it.”
“He never mentioned any secret work to you, something
beyond the scope of his official remit?”
“Nothing like that.”
“You’ve remained in regular contact?”
“Emails a couple of times a week.”
“He hasn’t mentioned any problems related to his current
role?”
“Alex loves his work. He lives for it.” Marc fingered the
woman’s file. “How did you come up with an intel work-up on
a missing civilian?”
Walton looked uncomfortable for the first time. “I never
left.”
This was news. “Did Alex know?”

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 Dav i s Bu n n

Walton shrugged that away. “Officially I’m gone. But I was

asked to remain on as a consultant.”
“To whom?”
“I’ll tell you on the way to the airport.” Walton’s gaze was
the only part of him that had not softened with the passing years.
“I’m not even going to bother with asking if you’re in. Go pack.
You’re wheels up in three hours.”
———
Marc’s house was a Colonial-era brownstone overlooking one
of the city’s miniature parks. The green was rimmed by ancient
oaks, so tall they could reach across the street and shelter his
bedroom window. Marc’s father had bought the house from the
city back when the neighborhood had been a drug-infested war
zone. The city had condemned the abandoned hulks, cleared out
the drug paraphernalia, and sold them for a song. The renova-
tions had taken five years and carried his father through grieving
over the loss of Marc’s mother. After his father’s death, Marc
had bought the place from his stepmother, who had wanted to
return to her family in Spartanburg. Marc often wondered what
his father would have thought, knowing the beautiful old place
had comforted two grieving generations.
Ambassador Walton remained downstairs. He claimed his
heart condition no longer permitted him the luxury of climb-
ing stairs. Marc was grateful for the momentary solitude. As
he tossed his gear into a bag, his gaze remained held by the
photograph on his bedside table. Marc zipped up the case and
sat down on the side of the bed. Walton’s querulous voice called
from downstairs. Marc did not respond. He was too caught up
in a conversation that had lasted three long years.
The photograph had been taken on just another sunlit after-
noon. The brownstone did not possess much of a yard. So like
most of their new neighbors, he and Lisbeth had claimed the

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park as their own. That day, they had taken an impromptu picnic
across the street to watch a lazy springtime sunset. Marc had
been going off somewhere the next morning. Such outings had
been Lisbeth’s way to slow him down, force him to turn away
from the coming pressures and pay attention to her.
Marc had taken her picture in a moment when the veils of
normal life had fallen away, and Lisbeth shone with love. The
photograph had resided in an album until the week after the
funeral, when he had awakened in the night and realized that
not only was she gone, but he would someday forget her ability
to perfume almost any moment.
Marc studied the picture, wishing there was some way to
formally acknowledge the fact that the time had come to move
on. He had not felt this close to Lisbeth for a long time. The
sense that she again filled his room and his heart left him certain
that she wanted him to go. Do this thing.
A man, Marc silently told the photograph in his hands,
could overdose on stability and quiet. Recently his most fervent
prayer had contained no words at all, just a silent secret hunger.
If he had been able to name his yearning, it would have been
for pandemonium. Something to lift his life from boredom and
sameness.
He remained there, staring at the best part of his past, until
Walton’s voice drew him into the unknown.

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 Chapter Two

S ameh climbed the courthouse stairs, burdened by far more

than the day’s heat. His name meant “he who is benevo-
lent.” A more ancient interpretation was “he who is elevated,”
in a spiritual sense. This particular morning, Sameh felt neither.
Nine o’clock in the morning and already the temperature
approached thirty degrees Celsius, ninety degrees Fahrenheit.
It was the twenty-third day of Ramadan. Muslim festivals were
calculated on the twenty-eight-day lunar cycle, and this year
Ramadan fell in May. During this festival, devout Muslims nei-
ther ate nor drank from sunrise to sunset.
Sameh was a lawyer and a member of the Syrian Christian
Church, the majority church for Iraqi Christians—those who had
not either fled or been decimated under Saddam. Out of general
respect for the Muslim culture, Sameh did not eat or drink in
public during Ramadan. But he was not a man accustomed to
fasting. And he detested the way life ground to a halt for this
entire month. Working hours were shortened and almost noth-
ing got done. People grew increasingly irritable, and the heat
only made things worse.
Sameh put off anything he possibly could until after Ramadan
ended. But this day’s task could not wait. A child’s life was at stake.
He entered the Al-Rashid courthouse in the center of

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 Dav i s Bu n n

Baghdad. The place had not been swept since the festival began.
All the custodial staff could be seen seated in the shade of a
courtyard palm, smoking cigarettes and muttering in sullen tones.
The courthouse had originally been an Ottoman palace. Now
it was stripped and battered and left with nothing but false pride
and glorified memories. What had once been four formal chambers
were now filled with papers and hostile employees and yellow dust.
The air-conditioning had been out of commission for months.
Most of the computers dotting the tables had shorted out. Docu-
ments were tied with twine and bundled like bricks, forming bar-
riers between the office workers and their getting anything done.
Sameh waited his turn before a desk midway down the
second hall. Omar was the senior clerk of court. He had been
appointed to his position during the old regime. Under Saddam
Hussein, every university graduate like Omar had been guaran-
teed a government job for life. He had been doing this job for
twenty-three years and knew nothing else.
Life for people like Omar was not pleasant. Since Saddam’s
fall, salaries had shot up two thousand percent. Even so, they had
not kept up with inflation. Omar considered himself a member
of the lost generation. While in his twenties, he had endured
the last months of the Iran-Iraq war. As a loyal veteran, he had
been rewarded with a job in the courthouse. Which he hated.
Then he had endured ten years of international embargo, fol-
lowed by the wars that ousted Saddam. Whatever came now,
whatever promise might evolve for the new Iraq, it would never
touch him. As far as Omar was concerned, his life was over. He
was forty-eight.
Normally, the only way to obtain anything from Omar was by
having a senior judge order it. But most judges treated Ramadan
as a holiday. Fasting made the judges who remained grumpy
and impatient, which meant lawyers used any pretext possible

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to postpone trials. Heaven protect any criminal forced to enter

a courtroom during Ramadan.
Sameh watched the man refuse one entreaty after another,
and knew he had one slim chance. When his turn came, he
decided to risk telling Omar the truth.
“I come to you as a supplicant,” he began. “As a beggar
seeking bread only you can grant me.”
A faint spark ignited deep in the clerk’s bored gaze.
“My client is a businessman. His youngest child has been
abducted.”
Omar had the decency to wince. “When?”
“Two afternoons ago.”
A dozen others with courthouse business stood close behind
Sameh, waiting their turn to make their entreaties. They moaned
in unison at the news.
“Tragic,” one said.
“An epidemic,” said another.
Nowadays adults who saw children playing in the street
threatened to punish them unless they went back indoors. Which
of course the children hated. But a child who escaped into the hot
Ramadan sunlight was a child under grave threat. Thieves had
taken to cruising the streets of wealthy neighborhoods, snatching
any child who happened to be alone.
This was what had happened to the son of Sameh’s client.
“One moment the boy was indoors playing with his sisters,”
Sameh said. “The next he slipped from the murabiah’s grasp
and flew out the door. By the time she was able to follow him
outside, he was already a tragic statistic.”
Those waiting their turn played the choir, shaking their
heads and bemoaning Baghdad’s lawless state. Kidnapping had
become a favorite tool of criminals. The banks and businesses
all employed armed guards.

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 Dav i s Bu n n

Despite himself, Omar was ensnared by the tragic drama.

“How old is the boy?”
“Four,” Sameh replied. “Today is his birthday.”
“This is the truth? The kidnappers stole him away from his
celebration?”
“You know me,” Sameh replied. “I do not lie.”
“It is true,” several murmured. “Sameh is the most honest
man in Baghdad.”
“But I am just a clerk,” Omar said, palms raised. “What
can I do?”
“The family’s gardener vanished the same day as the child,”
Sameh said.
The choir went silent.
Sameh said, “The murabiah is the mother’s aunt; she has
arthritis and is overweight. Even so, she claims it took her less
than three minutes to follow the boy outside. Perhaps a carload of
criminals happened to pass at this same moment. But neighbors
do not recall seeing a car, and the street in front of their home is
a quiet one. I wonder if perhaps the gardener had been waiting
for just such an opportunity.”
The clerk said, “You want to know if the gardener has a
record.”
“It is possible, no? One of Saddam’s parting gifts to Baghdad.”
This drew a knowing murmur from the audience. In the
closing days before the war, Saddam had released all violent
criminals from prison. Why, no one knew. Even the members
of his cabinet had been baffled by the action.
Sameh went on, “Perhaps the man decided to use the recent
chaos as an opportunity to improve his economic position.”
Omar pursed his lips. “I suppose it is possible. But to discover
this would be most difficult. So many of our archives from the
Saddam era have been either lost or destroyed.”

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Sameh knew the man was asking for a bribe. But Sameh was
one of a growing number of people who felt corruption should die
with the old regime. He said, “You wish they had all been destroyed.
But they were not. So could you request a search of those we still
have? Please, brother. For the sake of a lost and frightened child.”
Omar obviously realized that argument would do him no
good. Sameh el-Jacobi was known far and wide as a man who
stubbornly refused to offer a sweetener.
The clerk sighed noisily, wrote hastily, and tore the coveted
slip from his pad. He handed it over without meeting Sameh’s
gaze. “For the child.”
“I and the child’s parents offer our deepest thanks.”
Sameh bowed to Omar. He shook hands with the other
petitioners, accepting their best wishes in finding the child. He
walked down the long hall to the central file office. Behind the
counter, file clerks clustered about the few functioning computers
and avoided even glancing toward anyone seeking help.
The office’s lobby area was filled with people long used
to waiting on bureaucracy. They formed a sort of club, bound
together by grim humor. People slipped out for a smoke, suppos-
edly forbidden during Ramadan, and returned. There was humor
about that. Even after twenty-three days of daylight fasting, still
the banter continued. Sameh was greeted as a member in good
standing. A space was made for him on one of the hard wooden
benches lining the walls. Sameh asked how long the wait was.
Even this was cause for laughter. Days, a lawyer replied. Weeks,
another responded. The old man seated next to Sameh said he
had been there since the previous Ramadan.
But this day, Sameh was fated not to wait at all.
———
A few moments after Sameh settled himself, two men
stepped into the room. Instantly the lobby’s atmosphere tensed.

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 Dav i s Bu n n

Like all bodyguards to Baghdad’s power elite, the pair wore dark
suits and light-colored shirts and no ties. But these two also had
closely trimmed beards. Which meant they guarded a religious
official. All talk on both sides of the counter ceased.
The vizier, the personal aide to the Grand Imam, entered
behind them. Respectful murmurs arose, hushed greetings. The
vizier looked thoroughly displeased to be here. Which was hardly
a surprise. During Ramadan, such officials rarely took on any-
thing other than the most important religious duties. For the
vizier to personally come to the courthouse indicated a most
serious matter.
The bodyguards pointed in Sameh’s direction. The vizier’s
features twisted in bitter lines. “You are the lawyer el-Jacobi?”
The use of surnames was relatively new to Arab culture.
After the First World War, Ataturk had ordered it in his drive
to westernize the Turks. Over the last century most Arabs had
reluctantly adopted the practice, taking the name of their fam-
ily’s home village or a trade or the name of one of the Prophet’s
descendants. Sameh’s grandfather had adopted the first name
of a famous forebear, Jacobi, a powerful minister during the
Ottoman Empire. Sameh bore his surname with pride.
Before Sameh could respond, a fourth man entered. This
time everyone rose to their feet. Their greetings were both grave
and loud. Jaffar was the Grand Imam’s son, the heir apparent,
and a recognized imam in his own right.
The word imam meant “one who stood before others.” An
imam was generally recognized as both a scholar and religious
leader. The Imam Jaffar spent a few minutes circulating among
the waiting group, greeting each in turn, including the clerks
who now clustered by the front counter. But his gaze repeatedly
returned to Sameh.
Sameh knew Jaffar’s father, the religious leader of Iraq’s Shia

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population, which was the majority of Iraq’s Muslim community.

The Shia formed a majority only in Iraq, Iran, and Bahrain. In
the rest of the world, they were not just a minority, but perse-
cuted. Saddam Hussein’s regime had been Sunni by heritage.
The Shia under Saddam had suffered immensely, along with
the Christians.
Jaffar’s father was part of an august Persian dynasty that
traced its heritage back to the Prophet. Unlike many of the
current generation of Shia scholars, Jaffar considered himself
utterly Arab, endearing him to the local populace. Jaffar was
also fluent in Farsi, the language of Iran, out of respect to his
father and the family dynasty. This had forged alliances among
the conservatives.
Sameh had never met the man before. But Sameh held great
hopes for his country under Jaffar’s religious guidance. The father
was ailing and not expected to live long. Sameh would never
have prayed for a man’s demise. But he looked forward to the
day Jaffar became leader of the Shia community.
Those sentiments were not shared by the father’s vizier.
Sameh had never met this man either, but his first encounter
confirmed everything he had heard. The vizier directed the same
hostility toward Jaffar as he aimed at Sameh.
Jaffar had made no attempt to hide his plans to institute
changes as soon as he officially became Iraq’s chief cleric. And
the first change would be to retire the vizier.
The vizier controlled access to the Grand Imam and held
enormous power. Jaffar never spoke of what he thought of the
vizier. He did not need to. Everyone knew the vizier’s days were
numbered.
Jaffar now approached Sameh with his hand upon his heart,
a gesture of deep respect. “Sayyid.”
Even the vizier was surprised by this manner of address.

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Sameh himself was staggered. Sayyid was used by devout Mus-

lims to denote a distinguished superior. It was ironic for Jaffar
to address Sameh in this manner, as sayyid was the term most
often used to describe Jaffar himself. What was more, Sameh
was known throughout Baghdad as a devout Christian. Yet
the imam addressed him as he would another religious leader.
Throughout the room, eyes went round.
“Sayyid,” Jaffar repeated, shaking Sameh’s hand. “A matter
of great import has arisen.”
“How might I be of service to the honored teacher?”
Jaffar gestured toward the door. “Perhaps you would be so
kind as to accompany me?”
Sameh was too skilled a negotiator to let such an opportunity
slip by. He grimaced with regret and raised his voice. “Unfor-
tunately, honored sir, I also have a matter that cannot wait. A
child has been kidnapped. The information I seek could be of
crucial importance. Both for the child and his family.”
Jaffar’s eyes glimmered with understanding. He turned to
the others and said, “Good sirs, I am in great need of this man’s
services. Would you grant me a Ramadan boon and allow him
the first place in line?”
From that point, the inquiry took on a dreamlike ease. Sameh
approached the counter, where eight file clerks now waited to
serve him with an eagerness bordering on panic.
Sameh made his request and presented them with a photo-
copied page of the gardener’s passport. The eight clerks all sprang
into action. The other lawyers gaped as two clerks actually ran
for files stacked in another room. In all his years, Sameh had
never before seen a clerk run. He turned to the cleric. “Might I
ask you to return with me next week?”
Through the laughter, Jaffar replied, “Unfortunately, I am
expected to host a small dinner.”

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This was good for more laughter. The twenty-eighth day of

Ramadan was marked by Eid ul-Fitr, the year’s most important
feast.
The room went silent once more as the chief clerk returned.
His voice was edged with genuine regret as he said, “Your gar-
dener was indeed a felon released by Saddam.”
“His crime?”
“Kidnapping. Extortion.” The clerk looked pained. “Murder.”
Sameh might have felt a real sense of triumph had it not
been for the anguish this news would cause the family. “Might
I have a copy of his records? And his fingerprints?”
Such appeals normally meant yet another visit to the chief
clerk. If the clerk deigned to grant him another tethkara from
his coveted permit book, Sameh would normally have to wait a
month and return three or four more times. Today, however, the
copies were produced almost before the requests were formed.
Sameh accepted the file, stowed it in his battered briefcase,
and said to the room at large, “I am breathless with gratitude.”
“Sayyid, if you please.” Jaffar stood in the doorway. “This
matter is both urgent and pertains to those with whom I have
no connection.”
A murmur passed through the room as Sameh departed.
El Americani, the gathering said. The Americans. Sameh was
known for having been a go-between in the past. And what was
more important, he had survived.

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 Chapter Three

A s the limo pulled away from his home, Marc asked, “What
  about my job?”
“Your job,” Walton scoffed. “My former chief aide, reduced
to the role of bookkeeper.”
“I am a forensic accountant. I’m good at it.”
“You’re dying. Another year of this and they could measure
you for your last suit. You’re an operative. The best. It’s the work
you were born to do.”
“We’re not talking about what I want to talk about,” Marc
replied.
“At my request, a White House official was in touch with
your company’s director. You have been hired as a consultant to
the federal government. For the duration. Your boss is thrilled.
This is a foot in the door for his company.” Walton loaded his
next words with scorn. “You should receive a hefty bonus.”
“Pretty good,” Marc conceded, “for a supposedly retired guy.”
Walton’s voice turned hoarse with the delicious flavor of con-
spiracy. “The current administration in Washington is fractured.
Top to bottom. I’ve never seen such in-fighting. Worse than
Nixon. It’s a virus that’s eaten into every department, including
intel. They needed a voice they could trust. Someone who’s

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 Dav i s Bu n n

beyond politics. I advise what intel is fact, what is biased, and

what is pure political lard.”
“Who watches the watcher?”
Walton actually smiled, an event as rare as snow on the
moon. “Everyone.”
Marc could see the logic to their choice. Walton was childless
and a widower. He had purposely remained above the political
fray. His attitude was plainly stated and often repeated. The
nation’s intelligence system should serve with the same detached
commitment as the military. They should supply unvarnished
intel regardless of party loyalties or their own personal ambition.
Marc said, “They couldn’t have found themselves a better
man.”
That obviously surprised Walton. Even the driver glanced in
the rearview mirror and gave Marc a terse nod. Which confirmed
Marc’s assumption that the driver was not just a driver at all.
Walton asked, “Does this mean what’s past is past?”
Marc wanted to bite down on that hand. But he was going
into danger, and the ambassador was his only link to the promised
land. “Water under the bridge.”
Which earned him another nod from the driver.
Walton visibly relaxed. “I need a set of eyes and ears I can
trust. I would tell you not to put yourself in harm’s way. But we
both know that’s polite fiction for not getting anything done.”
He passed a thick file over to Marc. “This is all I have been able
to put together on Alex’s official remit. But my instincts tell me
it won’t help you. Whatever happened to Alex, the cause lies
beyond the Green Zone.”
“If it’s there, I’ll find it,” Marc replied. He owed that to
Alex. And far more besides.
Walton leaned back in his corner and surveyed Marc. “Your

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trouble is, you’re far too handsome to do decent undercover

work.”
Marc opened the file and pretended to read. They were back
on familiar territory.
“And there’s your height,” Walton continued. “You’re tall
enough to tower over most Arabs.”
“There are tall Iraqis.”
He might as well not have spoken. “Your coloring should
help you fit in.” Walton knew Marc’s father was Cajun. The
ambassador turned his attention back to the road. “Start working
on a three-day growth.”
The ambassador’s limo took the exit for Baltimore’s BWI and
headed for the private aviation terminal. Marc had been expect-
ing a ride all the way to Andrews Air Force Base. Leaving from
BWI meant this was a civilian flight. Given his destination was
a war zone, Marc would have preferred something more official.
Walton must have seen where Marc’s thoughts were headed,
for he said, “These are friends you can count on when the going
gets tough.”
“What about allies on the ground?”
“There’s one man. Barry Duboe is a senior official at our
embassy. He’ll meet you on arrival. You need to assume everyone
else has an ulterior motive. It’s the only reason I can come up
with for why I’m being fed so much conflicting information.”
As the limo pulled up by the departures gate, Walton
clutched at Marc’s jacket. “What I would give to be young and
fierce and armed with a cause worth fighting for.”
———
The jet that flew Marc to Baghdad was a kitted-out Gulf-
stream IV. The engines were whining up before Marc had his
duffel out of the limo’s trunk. Marc passed through security
and climbed the stairs. He received a terse welcome from the

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 Dav i s Bu n n

copilot, who stowed his bag and pointed him into the cabin
before disappearing.
Marc was the only passenger. He took a seat on the plane’s
left side so he could watch the ambassador’s limo pull away.
He saw Walton lean forward and grin out of the side window.
Marc tried to recall ever seeing the ambassador smile twice in
one day. He took the grin as a portent of bad things to come.
Once they reached cruising altitude, the cockpit door opened
and the senior pilot emerged. The man was rail thin, with chis-
eled features. One glance was enough to assure Marc the guy
was a veteran of more than just hours above the clouds.
The pilot asked, “Mind if I take a load off?”
“Help yourself.”
“The name’s Carter Dawes.” He slipped into the seat oppo-
site Marc, settling strong hands upon the burl table between
them. “The galley’s right behind you. I assume you don’t need
a smiling Betty to make you feel important.”
“A private ride to where I’m headed is about all the important
I need,” Marc replied. “And a lot more than I deserve.”
“Hey, we’re just a taxi with wings, right?”
“Is this a Sterling Securities jet?” Sterling Securities was the
largest of six private security firms operating inside Iraq. One
of their senior executives held his position because Walton had
personally pushed the company to take him on.
The pilot nodded slowly. “That is an excellent question.”
“I’m only asking because it seemed strange, taking off in a
jet with no markings. Which would suggest CIA, only we left
from a civilian airport. For Baghdad.”
Carter Dawes had a smile as tight as his gaze. “Like I said,
it’s a good question.”
“Here’s another one,” Marc said. “Why are we having this
con­ver­sation?”

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Dawes liked that. “A man focused on the bottom line. Who

knows. You might survive the Sandbox after all.”
“Thanks,” Marc said. “I guess.”
“Officially I’m based in Baltimore with the rest of my crew.
But these days, most everybody is washing their clothes in Kuwait
City. You follow?”
“Not yet,” Marc replied. “But I’m trying.”
“I’m here to tell you we can deliver whatever you need,
anywhere in Iraq, in ninety minutes flat.”
“I’m instructed to go in, take a look around, and report back
to home base.”
“Then why was I ordered to give you a rundown of our full
service package?”
Marc replied slowly, “I have no idea.”
“We’ve got some serious firepower on offer here. Armored
helicopter transports, troop carriers, even a pair of MIGs we
got off a Russian general a while back. Only thing you’ll have
to find for yourself is boots on the ground. Our remit is very
specific on that score. No personnel other than pilots in free-fire
zones, which is basically everywhere outside the Green Zone. We
can take you to the dance, but you’ve got to find your partners
somewhere else.”
Marc asked, “Ambassador Walton instructed you to tell
me all this?”
“No names,” Carter Dawes replied. “No names, no fixed
abode, no paper trail. All I’m saying, when it comes to transport
and firepower, we can basically make your every dream come true.
And somebody with serious clout has written you a blank check.”
The pilot slid a card across the table. On it were three lines.
A radio frequency. A phone number with a Washington dialing
code. And an email address. No name.
Carter rose from his seat and said, “Whatever, whenever.”

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 Chapter Four

T he imam led Sameh to an empty alcove in the courthouse’s

middle chamber. The vizier trailed behind, visibly smolder-
ing. The bodyguards stationed themselves so the three would
not be disturbed.
Jaffar, tall and burly and in his late thirties, was dressed
modestly in dark robes and a gray turban similar to the vizier.
But whereas the vizier’s robes were silk, Jaffar wore only cotton.
His chosen mode of attire was a subject of discussion throughout
the Shiite community. In Islam, donations from the public to
the clergy were direct, person to person. There was no hierarchy
or formalized salary structure as in the Christian church. Jaffar’s
simple clothing was also reflected in his home and his lifestyle.
Almost everything he received he gave away. For a man of such
power to dress as a plain scholar, with no adornment whatsoever,
was extremely rare.
Jaffar held an aura of immense presence. Sameh knew him to
be a noted Islamic scholar in his own right. He was also gaining
a reputation as a mediator between the conservative clergy and
a young population desperate for change. Such mediation was
vehemently opposed by the government in Iran. Sameh respected
him for this. Though he had never met the man before, he faced
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 Dav i s Bu n n

Clearly the vizier recognized this in Sameh. Either that, or

he knew of Sameh’s own work as a mediator between communi-
ties. For Sameh, this was a natural outgrowth of his Christian
faith. But as a member of the minority community in a Muslim
land, Sameh never openly spoke of his beliefs. The risk was too
great. Sameh’s family could suffer. Or worse.
“Forgive me for asking,” Jaffar began. “But as we have never
had an opportunity to work together, I need to ensure that what I
have heard is correct. You received your law degree from where?”
“Cairo University.” Considered the finest law school in the
Middle East.
“Yet you also studied in the United States, is that not so?”
“The University of Maryland.” His studies in comparative
legal systems at Cairo University had brought him to the atten-
tion of an Egyptian scholar working for the American embassy.
“No doubt this has charmed officials from across the great
waters. Which is important, since you served as unofficial media-
tor over religious sites, is that not so?”
“Muslim sites,” the vizier snarled at Jaffar’s elbow. “Our
religious heritage. Not his.”
“They asked my help in understanding what was truly a
holy shrine and what was the screeching of a local storefront
cleric.” Sameh worked at keeping the worry from his voice.
The vizier’s glare was hot as a branding iron. “If I have made
an error, good sirs—”
“Not at all. This has nothing to do with your fine efforts.”
Jaffar gave no sign he even noticed the vizier’s presence. “There
is another problem. A very serious one. You know the el-Waziri
family?”
“I have never had the honor of meeting them. But the name,
certainly.”
“Their eldest son, Taufiq, has vanished.”

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Sameh echoed the concern in Jaffar’s voice. “Indeed this is

dreadful news.”
Jaffar went on, “Taufiq el-Waziri has a well-earned reputa-
tion for, how shall I describe it . . .?”
“He is a firebrand,” the vizier snarled. “A troublemaker. He
has earned his fate a thousand times over.”
Jaffar nodded slowly, as though giving the vizier’s words seri-
ous thought. “Taufiq has vanished in the company of a female
American nurse.”
“Like smoke from a desert fire,” the vizier spat out. “A life
without meaning. A departure without regret.”
“Claire Reeves is her name. The American military claims
the two have slipped away to Dubai for a licentious holiday.”
“Scandal,” the vizier hissed. “His family’s good name is
ruined.”
“The family is adamant their son would never do such a
thing. But the Americans are not listening. Which is very strange.
You understand?”
“Of course.” The el-Waziris were a major exporter of dates.
Before Saddam’s tyranny reduced the country to its knees, two-
thirds of the world’s dates had come from Iraq. But what was
more, el-Waziri held the Coca-Cola franchise for the entire
country. Though much of the American military’s supplies were
flown in, el-Waziri’s trucks entered the Green Zone and many
bases every day. “For the Americans not to listen to a man with
whom they do business makes no sense.”
“What is there to understand?” The vizier retorted. “The
Americans are as shamed as we are.”
“A family as powerful as Taufiq’s must have connections with
the government,” Sameh said. “Perhaps they should seek help.”
“The family’s allies politely point out that there has been

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no ransom demand or any announcement from Al-Qaeda that

they hold the two young people.”
“Which always happens,” the vizier added. “There is always
the public proclamation. Without fail.”
“Then the bureaucrats say nothing more,” Jaffar went on.
“Shaming the el-Waziris with their silence.”
“What else are they to do?” the vizier demanded. “These
young fools deserve their fate, as I have said all along.”
“To make matters worse,” Jaffar said, “el-Waziri is one of
my father’s major backers. A devoted follower and financial
supporter. To have his son and heir involved in a scandal with
an American woman is disastrous.”
Sameh nodded slowly, his motions almost in time with Jaf-
far’s. The missing young man, Taufiq, had publicly scorned the
vizier and the other ultraconservatives, many of whom main-
tained very close ties with the religious hierarchy in Iran. Taufiq
was becoming a leader within the new generation of religious
Iraqis. They insisted upon a clean break with the Iranian clerics.
Young hotheads like Taufiq claimed Iran was dragging their own
country back into the Stone Age and making it a pariah on the
world stage. A sentiment Sameh shared.
Which was why Sameh asked, “How can I help you?”
His response only infuriated the vizier further. He hissed
to Jaffar, “Involving this man, this friend of the kayen tufaily,
will poison the waters.”
Sameh felt a flutter of fear. The vizier had a reputation for
carrying grudges for years, then striking hard and deep. The
man’s loathing for the Americans was also well known. Kayen
tufaily literally meant “parasite creatures,” street slang that
branded the user as adamantly anti-American.
The vizier was saying, “Taufiq and his hareem are in some
Red Sea resort, pretending to be man and wife. He is a disgrace

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to his family and to Ramadan. There is no need to humiliate

your father by involving an outsider. We should be in Nejev,
where your father will tonight address the Shia nation. Not here.
Not spreading the tale further.” He turned to Sameh, his gaze
reptilian. “With this one.”
The vizier was known to have condoned those who perse-
cuted Iraqi Christians. Jaffar’s father had refused to speak out
against his chief aide. Jaffar, however, had no time for such trash.
That was the word he used when speaking of extremist Muslims
who persecuted the minorities within their own society. Garbage.
Jaffar said, “My father and I spoke this very day.”
The vizier showed genuine consternation. “He has agreed
to this?”
“I serve as his mouthpiece.” Jaffar turned back to Sameh and
showed very real pain with his smile. “Sameh el-Jacobi, will you
act on the Grand Imam’s behalf?”
“Of course,” Sameh replied, wondering if his smile was as
much a wince as Jaffar’s. For he knew that he would be paid for
this case only with honor. And honor did not buy bread in the
new Iraq. “Of course.”

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